into the sink. Then she points to the plates and to the sink filled with water.
In the days when they lived in their own large apartment, Stephie’s family had a cook, a housemaid, and a cleaning lady who came once a week. After they moved, Mamma did all the housework herself. Papa thought Stephie and Nellie should help with simpler tasks like the dishes and dusting. But Mamma refused.
“My daughters are never going to be household slaves,” she told him.
Well, she should see Stephie now, awkwardly scraping the remains of the fish from the plates down into the slop pail. One at a time, Stephie slides the plates into the hot water. Finding the dishcloth, she washes away the fatty remains; then she rinses each plate in fresh water.
By the time Stephie has cleaned up after the meal, her hands are swollen and red. She wipes the table and rinses the dishcloth under the cold-water tap. The dishcloth has a sour smell.
Aunt Marta sweeps the floor and wipes the stove. She inspects each plate and, pointing with one finger, shows Stephie where she hasn’t done a good job on one of them.
When they’re finished, Aunt Marta unties her apron, turns on the radio in the front room, and settles into the rocking chair. Stephie finds herself standing in the kitchen. If there had been music on the radio she would have gone in and listened. But it’s just the voice of a man speaking words she cannot understand. Aunt Marta doesn’t seem bothered about her right now, so Stephie decides to go up to her room.
five
“So that you can write us beautiful letters,” he said as he lifted it out of the little box lined in dark blue velvet.
Stephie takes a sheet of writing paper, along with the pen, and settles herself in at the bay window. She unscrews the cap on the pen and looks out at the landscape.
Rain clatters against the windowpane. The wind is gusty, but she can see the stony slope that leads down to the water. Patches of grass sprout up here and there, as do a few gnarled juniper bushes. The water’s edge is marked by a rocky shore, stones and pebbles as far as the eye can see. Waves are crashing against the shore so loudly that Stephie can hear them through the closed window. Everything in sight is gray-gray stones, a gray ocean, a gray sky.
Dearest Mamma and Papa, she writes. I miss you so. We have now arrived at the place where we will be staying. It’s a faraway island. We came out by boat, but I don’t know how long the ride took as I was seasick and then I fell asleep.
Nellie and I weren’t put in the same family. I don’t know why. Nellie’s living with Auntie Alma. She’s nice and has two little children of her own. I’m at Aunt Marta’s house. She’s…
Stephie stops, her pen resting on the paper. How to describe Aunt Marta? She imagines the woman’s stern face, her tightly pulled-back knot of hair, the sharp lines around her mouth, and eyes so pale gray they appear almost colorless.
Fish eyes, Stephie thinks with a little shiver.
… quite strict, she writes. She doesn’t speak German. Neither does Auntie Alma. I’m not sure Nellie and I will have anyone but each other to talk to.
Something wet strikes the paper, dissolving the last word into a puddle.
Mamma! she writes. Oh, Mamma, please come and get us. This place is nothing but sea and stones. I can’t live here. If you don’t come and get me, I think I’m going to die.
Stephie pushes the letter aside. Her throat aches with held-back tears. She runs into the little room and is about to throw herself onto the bed when she remembers that she mustn’t wrinkle the bedspread. Instead she sinks to the floor, resting her head against the edge of the bed.
When she finally stops sobbing, Stephie feels emptied out, as if she had nothing inside but a gaping hole. She goes out to the little washstand on the landing and rinses her face with cold water.
Her letter is still on the windowsill. Stephie picks it up and reads through it.
She can’t send a letter like that home. Mamma would be distraught. She might even regret having allowed them to leave. Papa would be disappointed in Stephie, his “big girl.”
With great determination Stephie crumples the letter into a hard ball. She looks for a wastepaper basket, but doesn’t find one anywhere. By the window in her room is a little vent with a pull-string attached. She tugs the string, opens the vent, and stuffs her ball of paper in. Then she sits down at the writing table with a fresh piece of paper in front of her, and starts a new letter.
Dearest Mamma and Papa!
We have now arrived at the place where we will be staying. It’s an island in the sea. We came out by boat, which was very exciting. I have a second-floor room with a view of the sea. Everyone is very kind. We’ve already learned a little Swedish. It’s not very hard.
I hope you will soon be getting your entry visas for America. Then all four of us will be together again. But until that day, you needn’t worry about Nellie and me. We are fine here, and there is even a dog. It’s brown and white, and we are allowed to play with it all the time. I will write again soon and tell you more.
Your daughter,
Stephie
She writes the address on the envelope, folds the letter, and slips it in. She licks the flap and presses the envelope closed. Now all she needs is a stamp.
Aunt Marta is sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. Stephie shows her the letter.
“A stamp,” she tries to say. “I need a stamp.”
She points to the top right-hand corner of the envelope. Aunt Marta nods and says something. Stephie thinks she recognizes the word “post.” Maybe they will have to go to the post office for stamps. Probably.
“Coffee?” Aunt Marta asks, pointing to her own cup. Stephie shakes her head. Coffee is for grown-ups. Aunt Marta goes to the larder and brings out the pitcher of milk. She holds it in one hand and pretends to lift a glass to her lips with the other. Stephie nods and smiles. Aunt Marta looks kind of funny when she tries to talk to her.
We’re like two deaf-mutes, Stephie thinks. Deaf-mutes who can’t communicate in any language.
Aunt Marta gives Stephie a glass of milk, and Stephie drinks it to the last drop. Then Aunt Marta puts the palms of her hands together, leans her cheek on her hands, and shuts her eyes. Stephie nods again. She’s very tired now.
“Good night,” she says, going upstairs.
She changes into her long flannel nightgown, washes, and brushes her teeth. She folds the bedspread very carefully, then hangs it over the foot of the bed. Her clothes are neatly folded on the chair.
It feels wonderful to slide under the covers, in spite of their unfamiliar smell. She buries her nose in her old teddy bear, feeling safe in the familiar scent of his fur. It smells like home.
Although she is exhausted, Stephie cannot fall asleep. She lies awake for ages, listening to the patter of the rain on the roof. She’s never heard the rain so clearly from indoors before. A while later she tiptoes from the bed to look out the window. It’s pitch black outside. Not so much as a streetlight.
“When you’re twelve you’ll have a bedroom of your own,” her parents used to tell her when they were still living in their apartment. In those days she looked forward to not having to share the nursery with Nellie. Now she is twelve and has a room of her own. But in the wrong house. In the wrong country.
Finally her body begins to feel heavy. Stephie climbs back into bed and begins drifting off. She’s nearly asleep when the door opens just a crack. Eyes closed, she hears footsteps approaching her bed. Lightly, as if in a dream, a hand brushes her cheek. A moment later, the door shuts again.
